dessin｜Colors Roaring from Betelgeuse

Poetry is sharp until Betelgeuse explodes

　　　　　　　　　　　　　　Fugetsu Utani

Haruomi Hosono "Night on the Galactic Railroad"

During an extracurricular activity in second grade, I went to a planetarium. As the midnight blue universe expanded inside the dome, a galaxy overflowing with particles of light flowed by, and many constellations appeared. Monoceros, Microscopium, Sculptor, Vega and Altair, the Andromeda Galaxy. Accompanied by music, the myths associated with each were told. Including how the red Betelgeuse, shining on the shoulder of the beautiful hunter Orion, who was followed by his hunting dogs Sirius and Procyon, was showing signs of a supernova explosion. For a while, in the classroom, we whispered about how the brightness of the explosion would turn the night into day, how rainbows would be visible even at night, or how the emitted cosmic rays might even destroy humanity.

Because my aunt lived within the school district, I was left in her care every time my mother was hospitalized. It was an old, large mansion with a Western-style building added onto a Japanese-style house, and it had unnecessary corners and steps. I remember spending the winter break of my second-grade year at my aunt's place as well. There was a cousin three years older than me who seemed sickly; he didn't go to school and was taught by a private tutor. He grew his black, voluminous hair down to his chest and was dressed in girls' clothes, like Jean Renoir in his childhood. And he never spoke. When I tried to talk to him, he would put a finger to his lips to signal me to be quiet.

We would shut ourselves in the library on the mezzanine, and while soaking in the silence of the afternoon, we would look things up in encyclopedias, draw pictures, or do crafts. The library door was covered in the same wallpaper as the walls, so it was a bit confusing. We would climb onto a large rectangular |table| placed in the center of the room, set up a telescope, and observe the midday moon from the high windows. My cousin would pretend to be a scholar from around the 16th century, wearing a long black dress like a rubashka and velvet room shoes, walking around on the |table| with a melancholic expression.

When I handed him the star chart I received as a souvenir at the planetarium, he turned the date dial to find the constellations observable that day. I pointed to Betelgeuse. He drew Orion on a piece of cardboard about the size of drawing paper. He instructed me to cut out the stars in circles, then open an encyclopedia and draw the figure of Orion over the constellations. We decided to trace the pencil sketch with a white crayon. When we painted over it with Prussian blue watercolor, it repelled the paint. Once Orion was finished, I thought about drawing Canis Major and Canis Minor to form the Winter Triangle.

In the chocolate boxes and cookie tins lined up on the |table|, besides colored pencils and crayons, there was a collection of miscellaneous treasures classified as junk—for example, brass buttons, matchboxes, rose-cut blue glass, clock gears and winding keys, bee pin badges, ores, and foreign coins. My cousin would pick them up and tap them one by one with a triangle |beater| to check their sound. We were absorbed in our work. It felt as if eternity was filling the room.

To finish the Orion constellation, my cousin pasted cellophane behind the star cutouts from the back of the cardboard. Betelgeuse was red, Rigel was light blue. Next to the stars on the front, he glued on |objects| whose sounds he liked. Betelgeuse was a seashell, Alnilam was a bead, Bellatrix was a bobbin. When it was finished, he had me hold the |beater|. He instructed me to tap the seashell. As soon as he, satisfied with the tone, held the picture of Orion up to the sunny window, the stars began to shine brilliantly, illuminated by the pouring sunlight.

Thinking about it now, perhaps my cousin had |synesthesia| and was hearing the sounds of colors. The red sound of Betelgeuse exploding.

As an adult, he got a job at a canning company and works in Alaska.

Kenji Ozawa "Shooting Star Be-Bop"

As a return gift for the first-place Apollo Prize, I tried to write a prose-poetic story (aiming for it) by expanding on the imagery from Mr. Apollo's haiku. Although the Betelgeuse haiku is classified as having no seasonal word, since Orion is a winter constellation, I recognized it as a winter piece.

Apollo, thank you for always watching over me and encouraging me, like the North Star.

Drawing: Artist Apollo